


Malleable

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mental Anguish, One Shot, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Season/Series 03, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 22:11:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17010162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: With vested interests, she fashions revolution into a person. An extended look into the torture and manipulation of Jodie Spiteri.





	Malleable

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I do not condone Joan's abuse or her infliction of harm upon Jodie Spiteri. Nor do I condone Joan's behavior. Do take into consideration that this is a very dark fic; I advise if you're easily squeamish to avoid reading. It is neither my intention to upset nor offend. I merely wanted to explore the nature of their relationship, as per a request from a friend.
> 
> Remember the importance of self-care, be kind to yourselves. All the best.

It’s happening again: the past merging into the present, foreseeing the despairing future.

Dear Jodes isn’t immune to Franky’s ambitious curiosity, her smarmy insincerity patched over layers of girlish insecurity. _Snitch_ , they call Jodie. A title she pathetically wears while dressed in a crumpled prison-issued uniform reeking of sweat and saltwater, deadwater. Her bright light’s gone.

Justice takes matters into her own hands. Prior to her visitation, she observes the anxious lemming huddled in a corner on the CCTV screen. Miss Ferguson looks at her and must think, “that’s the one: the rusted key to a warped lock.” The hollow click of heels signifies a formidable entrance. With the camera tilted, leather gloves slip into place, squealing akin to a stuck pig.

Wraith-like, she herds the sheep into her corner of the pen. Governor Ferguson smells and hears as a wolf does. No one overrules, overpowers, Clytemnestra. For the sake of control, she resorts to sinister matters. The memory of mattresses a-blazing doesn’t go down with a swallow.  Little drug mules make for desperate pets. Time to harp on the powerful’s weakest links. Sacrifices needn’t only be archaic.

Jodie Spiteri does not know the meaning of rest.

Bruises linger under her eyes. 

There is no redeemable aspect to the Governor’s character; Jodie spies the silhouette of a monster. The radio clicks, an old tape whirring to life for a requiem to play; “Libera Me” serenades the wicked and the damned. The moonlit ritual begins.

Below her, Ferguson sneers at the wretched display. Spiteri resembles a cornered, terrified animal, huddling into herself for warmth, for tenderness, for a sliver of hope. Confrontation makes her cower. No longer does Spiteri possess the tenacity to _glower_. A part of Governor Ferguson aches for retaliation, a spit-fire woman with hair as red as blood or eyes as green as jade, perhaps.

The thing about Spiteri is that she’s _vermin_ : vermin are weak, vermin don’t protest. They’re prey to beasts like Joan Ferguson and Franky Doyle and men like Ivan and Channing. That goes unsaid.

She knows that it’s pointless to run; she tried once, twice, and was rewarded with gloved fingers filling her mouth, pushing past her tongue, and making her gag. A deteriorating will crumbles here and now.

What condones torture? Not a goddamned thing.

“Jodie, Jodie, Jodie,” she croons her name in the dead of the night, as is the case for all landed revelation. “Women such as Doyle see themselves as better than this place... Better than you. You’re a pawn.”

A living embodiment of the egotistical, it’s a curse to be this gifted. With firm resolve, she weaves her wicked web.

Unable to suppress a shudder, she finds the low, sultry whisper insufferable to listen to. Eventually, she’ll take a liking to it. Her stomach cramps from impending dread. The intensity of that black stare unnerves Jodie. She squirms under the scrutinizing spotlight sweep. She picks at her skin, dead cells buried under the bed of her nails. Scratches at an itch that never settles.

Plagued by this infernal spirit, this malevolent force strikes. Leather collides with a pink, swollen cheek. Jodie whines, pleads, and cries her bloody eyes out. Tears encourage her tormentor to administer another venomous sting. 

With the greasy charm of a cult leader, she cups her jawline, coaxing the shivering woman to look up and peer into coal eyes. A thumb digs into the underside, pressing into softness. Her lids flash open. Reduced to a blank slate, her story is rewritten.

Jodie flinches within that grip.

“Now, now,” Ferguson tuts. “Doyle loathes a coward.”

Shivers rack through her small, bird-boned body. Shattered, she hasn’t known a proper night’s rest in ages. Ballooned with nervous energy, she clutches a pressed trouser leg. Wool scratches her palms, but she holds on for the sheer sake of holding on.

“Think of me in the depths of despair,” God challenges in the midst of an impressive high, allowing for Jodie to remain tethered to her anchorage.

“I-I already do, Miss Ferguson.”

So, a doll learns to croon a pretty tune.

Detached yet sneering, she serves to correct. The wolf grabs her by the jaw, pulls her to her feet.

“It’s Governor.”

There exists an untapped potential in her, so akin to Vera, her wretched Judas. Frustrated by the treachery, she turns her attention - her godly _devotion_ \- to Anderson and Spiteri: an angel and a nothing, a no one. 

“L-let me rest.” She spits it out, stammers, her bladder on the verge of collapse. The worst has yet to come.

Jodie spies the shadowy curve of the Governor’s mouth in the dark: a smile slips into place.

As a child, her father pushed her to extremes: to study, to train, to hone her body and mind on the downtrodden path of becoming the perfect foot-soldier. Bruised and bleeding, foil in hand, she came short of perfection in that young, golden age. That militarism shoved down the urge to hurt, to maim, though the desire (profound yet confusing) nagged away at Joan. And so it does again; as she unravels, she’ll take down countless poor, unfortunate souls with her.

“ _No_ ” comes the hollow sound she so dreaded hearing.

Exercising brute strength, Ferguson pushes a ragdoll back down to the ground – on her knees, where she belongs. She never gives the lesser opponent the opportunity to rise up. Dominated by all she’s hated, consider this a case of stress relief. Impiety forms the basis of her temple. High upon her ivory tower, the Governor has proof that not a single innocent soul exists anymore.

In this new world order, the Governor strives to cleanse this bleating sheep of all her impurities. Fiendish games know no end in sight. Jodie feels her torture drawn out in slo-mo-tion.

“It _wasn’t_ mine,” she whines.

“The stash was located within your cell,” the Governor concludes. “Therefore, it must belong to you. Unless... you wish to confess the interference of another.”

A hungry animal stalks the room. She wets her lips, just a sliver of serpentine tongue. Need outweighs concern. As impervious as a God, no one can touch her. Some lives are expendable; Spiteri just happens to be a sacrificial pawn

“N-no. No!”

She wants to flail, feels more caged than an animal in pressed quarters. The huddled inmate resembles a child rather than a grown woman. On her hands and knees, she scurries. She possesses a haunted, hunted look. How **delicious** suffering appears on another. Hugging her knees, she draws into herself and dares to venture deeper into her self-made shell. Convulsions are a symptom of terror.

And every night, she leaves her the same: used, dirty, and hoping for some semblance of relief.

These nights last the longest. Jodie forgets what a restful sleep entails. Utilizing the intimidation factor, Jodie never hears her slither into the room. Begging for forgiveness, her eyes tinged pink, her nose running, she makes for a pitiful excuse of a human being.

Behold a game resembling tug of war in the human form. This Miltonic Satan crows a sinister threat.

The Governor’s shadow takes over. She’s made a lasting impression on the inmate. Spiteri’s stare glosses over. This ghoul won’t leave her head. On the bed, the weight of the pillow comes crashing down. A strong knee presses into her side. Her chest sinks, a deep sigh weighing Atlas down to the concrete ground.

Whimpering and whining, she thrashes beneath the warped pressure of a body and cotton. There’s no foreplay, no whining, only breath-play and life so cruelly robbed. She hears the Devil whisper in her ear, sickly sweet, all threats and no comfort.

“My sources for information are countless. You’re disposable.”

Soon, an unprecedented thrill accompanies the torture, an inherent value placed in fear. In time, Spiteri learns to trust the hand that bites, pinches, slaps, _scolds_. Spent, the poor thing exhausts herself, her mind a mess. On another occurrence, she feeds her cake. Hours later, plagued by anxiety, it comes back up.

A sadist derives enjoyment in the process. Her phoenix heart burns hurt.

At the dawn of the Witching Hour, ice-cold water washes over her, drowning out her cries. A cloth draped over her chapped, gnawed lips simulates the effect quite nicely. She’s highly impressionable: she does the work, the rewiring, herself with that sniveling. Gasping, Jodie resembles a specter under the rough, terry-cloth sheet, mouth projected in a garish, horror film fashion.

Ravenous hunger seeks warped justice. Pain is the experience to be savored. The allure of pain twists the mind.

“No one misses you. No one cares.”

This marks the start of how the little sheep picks until scabs form. Clawing at her arms, she’s desperate to shed her skin, wrapped in her stiff sheet like a tourniquet.

“Ah, ah,” Joan tuts. “Pain is strength-“

Pinches her cheek too hard, too hungrily, too wantonly. Leather creases and caresses her lower lip nudged agape.

“Talk to me, Jodie.”

A deliberate use of her name

“No, please, no. I will, I will. I promise, I promise!,” she warbles. Sniffles and whimpers make for a pathetic display. Caged canaries sing the prettiest song before they’re smothered.

With a penchant for destroying what she touches, the almighty inspects those self-inflicted damages. Rubbing alcohol, the equivalent of saline, fills her wounds. Tenderly, Miss Ferguson dresses her wounds. Wipes away the rot and mess to clean flesh’s fresh slate. Encircles her arms and wrists in gauze. Mummifies their interactions in the somber quietude of tonight. Curved, glossy lips touch her right cheek. A spinner of falsehoods, she feeds her lies.

“I’ll never leave you,” Joan promises.

In that moment, Jodie believes her.

Spiteri offers a shaky grin. Though swallowed by fear, she feels yearning: the dutiful desire to please.

This phantom glides and skips across the window of opportunity, her authoritarian profile made visible in planes of glass. She takes her frustrations out on that which is disposable. The evisceration of a mere gnat becomes commonplace.

“You’re worthless, you’re pointless, you’re nothing. Cut Bea Smith-“

Fingertips trace and trail patterns on her skin. Gloved palms cup pale cheeks laden with baby-fat. That, too, will eat away.

_Worthless. Pointless. Nothing._

Medusa’s psyche refuses to turn their mirror unto herself. She’s run rampant with rage, unable to cope properly with betrayal and love lost.

Dread mingles with eager anticipation for these meetings - these trysts - these conditions of her parole. Poisoned, she comes to love the warped affection. Love is a strange term, but it helps describe what blossoms in her belly no matter how wrong it may be.

Swaddled by the dark uniform, wrapped in Joan’s arms, Jodie feels protected. Caged. Swallowed. Consumed by the jailer, this is the execution, her loss of self.

“Take them off,” Jodie pleads, near infantile in her ways. She wants skin against skin. Bloodshot eyes appear weepy and bleary.

“No.”

Silver strands sheen and gleam. The Governor denies her that basic human right. Instead, she clutches harder. Fights off her need, her want, her abominable hurt.

Detecting a hint of vodka on the lapels, Jodie wills for barbed wire wool to scrap her raw. Her crying echoes throughout desolate halls. Oh, how she dreads the hollow echo of footsteps.

“It’s just pain, Spiteri. Have some **courage** ,” the Governor whispers into the shell of her ear, her mouth teases the lobe. Nothing more.

Subtle manipulation switches the CCTV’S angles. Steam rises from the shower. A gentle touch coasts along her spine. Held under the jetting spray, she trembles; it’s all too much. A hand knots into her matted hair, pulls her away from the liquid flames.

In between her weeping fits, she asks a knife of a question: “Why do you do this?”

Self-loathing is a bitch to stomach.

The question chills Ferguson. Clenches her stomach. Nostrils flared, she focuses her pitch-black stare on her prey.

“Because I can.” Without skipping a beat, she adds: “And it’s Governor to you.”

The showers turn off. Soaked and ego bruised, Jodie shudders. In the blink of an eye, Joan swears she sees Vera – Jianna - in place. Ivan tuts behind her. Ghosts make a mockery of her grand master plan.

_How pathetic, Joan. Worthless._

Shielded hands reach for the terry cloth tangle hanging off the rack. There’s a sliver of hesitation before the Governor swathes this shivering wreck in the towel. One by one, she removes her gloves. Touches skin against skin. When she rubs her shoulders, she finds Spiteri to be pliant, malleable. She looks up, seeking salvation, a messiah to rescue her from this hell.

A pity Joan cannot feel a thing.

“Good girl,” she croons as though she speaks (sings her tainted lullaby) to another. 

Praise comes sparingly. It churns her insides, warms them and makes them gooey. Nervously, Jodie swallows. She flashes a crooked smile.

With vested interests, she fashions revolution into a person.

Beyond repentance, Spiteri pleads/begs for relief. With a leather palm pressed to the forehead, a harbinger with a broken halo anoints her. She lures Doyle’s pawn into her court.

Cut Bea Smith, betray Franky Doyle, these are her dreams sung to her in a cruel melody. In Satan’s embrace, she falls asleep - a pounding head to an equally pounding chest.


End file.
